How the Grouch Endured Christmas
by AlwaysHatedEssays
Summary: The grumpy Prince of all Saiyans contributes what little merriment he can offer up for the holidays… an array of bad-tempered shenanigans and bellyachings. Some V/B and suggestive content
1. Chapter 1

A/N – this takes part a few years after the Cell Games, while Vegeta is still growing accustomed to his life on the totally insufferable planet Earth. So he's still a major grump :)

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><p>Gaudy decorations adorned the halls of the Capsule Corp mansion. Vegeta stalked through his home, turning his mouth up into a snarl at seeing the atrocious array of wreaths and ornaments throughout every room in his abode.<p>

All the while as he trudged along, he was wrinkling his nose at the strong stench of pine emanating from the Briefs family's excessively large Christmas tree, which had been taking up nearly half the space of the living room since the first day of December. It was now Christmas Eve, and the overpowering smell of that inordinately fragrant plant had been allotted twenty four days to permeate the entire residence. The Saiyan prince had found himself sneezing ever so often for the past few weeks, thanks to the inescapable odor of that giant perfumed tree. This planet's yearly snowfall along with the cold sting of the winter season had helped attribute to Vegeta liking the holidays even less.

The concept of holidays was not lost on him. It was only that they were redundant and seemed to be forced that he wasn't thrilled to partake in these obligatory celebrations. Nevertheless he ended up joining his family in the festivities, though grudgingly and with the excuse that he only offered them his presence as long as he could gorge himself like a king. The grandiose feasts were his one favored part of these special occasions.

He had been heading for the kitchen, drawn to the scent of food in the air, but his trip was delayed when he picked up the nerve-racking sound of his four-year-old offspring's sniffling.

Vegeta cursed at where his fate had led him, but as he could sense that the boy's mother was not in the immediate vicinity to deal with the child's whining herself, Vegeta stormed over to the sound of his son's vocalized sadness, if only to reprimand the brat for his un-Saiyan like whimpering.

He spotted the boy sitting down on the cold linoleum floor of Bulma's laboratory, clutching one of his knees and biting down on his lip with his teeth. The young half-Saiyan struggled to fight back a wail when he saw his father marching over to him. Not at all expecting to hear any consoling words from his perpetually scowling parent, Trunks braced himself, awaiting the inevitable scolding that would be cast down upon him.

"And just what have you been up to in here?" Vegeta interrogated his son, eying his surroundings for signs that anything might be out of place or tampered with. "Your mother has instructed that you are not to prowl through her laboratory unsupervised, a safety precaution she has implemented for good reason, seeing as you have injured yourself as a consequence of your recklessness."

Trunks lowered his head, afraid to look his father in the eye as he answered, "I was gonna borrow the dragon radar."

"For what purpose?"

"To see if Santa's got all the dragon balls yet," the four-year-old admitted sheepishly.

Vegeta scrutinized his son, unable to spot any outward signs of deceit from the boy. He knew Trunks wouldn't lie to him, and yet he could not place a reason as to why the child would need the dragon radar to track the mythical 'Santa Claus' creature.

Finally, he had to ask, "And why would that taloned heathen need to gather the dragon balls?"

The pain of his injury forgotten, Trunks perked up, bold with certainty as he proclaimed, "Well, how does he leave presents for a bajillion people in one night every year? I think he's cheating and using the dragon balls to wish all the presents to everyone's houses at the same time, and then he uses the other wish to get all the milk and cookies we leave out for him!" He pouted, quietly muttering, "It's not fair, _I_ want to eat those cookies mom makes!"

Vegeta had to admit that his son's suspicion was amusing. He concurred with a scoff, "I suspect you're right. I can't fathom how such a repulsive and hefty being can break into this house under my watch."

"I knew it!" Trunks beamed, glad he was not alone with his suspicions.

Vegeta said nothing, silently wishing he could simply tell his son that the Santa beast was merely an imaginary being, fabricated only to promote good behavior among the Earthling children. He frowned upon these humans for perpetuating the illusion that a fat mythical man breaks into homes for the sole purpose of delivering presents. But Bulma had strictly told Vegeta that he was in no way allowed to shatter the holiday spirit for Trunks. That meant he could not disprove Santa's existence to the boy.

Although it was clear to Vegeta that Trunks was clever enough to suspect something didn't add up as to how an obese man could intrude upon billions of homes in a single night. And from what the Saiyan prince knew of this planet's laws, breaking and entering was illegal, regardless of whether or not the perpetrator left gifts behind.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Vegeta's sight landed upon his young son's scraped-up knee. "It appears that in your excitement to uncover that oaf's whereabouts, you tripped and fell. Has your training taught you nothing? This is an injury that is easily avoided."

Trunks' bottom lip quivered, and Vegeta quickly drew back from scorning, lest the boy should begin sobbing. Grumbling curses, he combed the vicinity with his eyes until he spotted a medicinal cabinet at the far end of the room. It was a good thing the Briefs' kept one in each lab, as they contained emergency kits in the event that any lab accidents may occur.

The prince wordlessly marched over to the cabinet, crossing the room and returning with only a few strides, carrying antiseptic and bandaging supplies in hand. He stopped down to the young half-Saiyan's side, commanding, "Let's see how badly you've maimed yourself."

Trunks hesitantly removed his hands from his knee, revealing the full extent of the carnage—a large scrape spanning much of the flesh above his kneecap, the skin torn and matted with blood. While Vegeta studied the wound, expediently judging the severity of it, Trunks piped up, "Are you going to fix my boo-boo?"

"_Flesh wound_," Vegeta corrected with a snarl. He was not fond of his son using such an infantile nickname to lessen the gruesomeness of an injury. He suspected the boy's mother had taught him the term. "I can't very well let you walk around with a bloodied knee, can I? As much as it would amuse me to see your mother's reaction, the woman would holler with that shrill voice of hers. I'd prefer to avoid going deaf."

Trunks gulped in accordance with his father's words. The boy adored his mother, but she was downright terrifying whenever she shrieked.

While twisting off the cap of a bottle containing an antiseptic solution, Vegeta feigned another explanation for tending to the boy's wound. "As the son of an elite warrior, you must know how to address your injuries. Now pay attention—this will be the only example you're going to get."

He dabbed a washcloth with the liquid, then he pressed the dampened towel against Trunks' scraped knee. The little prince flinched at the sting, but he didn't whimper, only wincing as he bravely endured the pain. After cleaning the wound of blood, Vegeta slapped a cotton pad onto the injury. He fetched the bandage roll and tore off a portion, flattening the adhesive across the child's knee and securing the pad in place.

When Trunks looked down and saw the plain bandage covering his knee, he complained, "I wanted a band-aid with Rudolph on it!"

Pursing his lip, Vegeta had to fight to stifle his blood pressure. It was absurd—he was a Saiyan prince, he should never be caught kneeling and patching up anyone else's wounds, yet here he was. To top it off, he had been civil enough to bandage the boy's injury, yet the ungrateful little brat didn't appreciate his handiwork and his rare moment of showing sympathy.

Trunks prodded at his numb and bandaged knee, listening to his father lecturing, "Do not be so irresponsible. I don't want my royal blood spilled outside of battle."

"Oh. Okay."

"Consider this to be a gift; the knowledge of how to address the injuries you sustain on the battlefield. But in return for the kindness I've bestowed upon you, you had better clean that pig-sty you call a room the moment you recover from this petty injury." He'd heard Bulma nag about it enough as of late, and it seemed that perhaps only Vegeta's insistence could encourage the brat to tidy his quarters.

Frowning, Trunks gave a nod in compliance, though he was far from looking forward to the task he had been given. He usually waited to clean his room only once the carpet was covered in so much clutter and debris that it was impossible to walk across the floor, and he was forced to hover in the air to make it over to his equally messy bed. But he could not disobey his father's orders.

Trunks stood, briefly testing his injured knee by shifting his weight on one leg, deciding he was well enough to sprint around the house. But before leaving to carry out his misdeeds, he encroached upon his still-kneeling father. Without waiting for approval, the boy threw his arms around his father's shoulders to hug him, pronouncing, "Thanks, Dad!"

Vegeta gave an annoyed grunt, which Trunks misperceived as meaning 'You're welcome'. The boy released his father and scampered off.

After recovering from the unwanted physical affection he had received, Vegeta returned the medical supplies to their proper place, and then he strode from the lab, resuming his journey to the kitchen.

But his quest to satiate his appetite was once again derailed when he entered the living room; there he crossed paths with Dr. Briefs.

The old coot was hunched over in front of the fireplace, attempting in vain to strike a match. Vegeta watched his in-law's futile struggle with contempt, until he felt himself receiving waves of second-hand frustration. It was almost unbearable to witness such a pathetic display. The prince could stand it no longer.

"Consarnit…" Dr. Briefs was muttering absently to himself when Vegeta approached. The scientist looked up to see the Saiyan looming over him with a scowl on his face.

"Ah, I didn't see you there, son," the doctor said. "It's pretty chilly in here, so I thought I'd get a nice fire going to cozy the place up… but I suppose my arthritis is stopping me from striking a match. Shoot, I may be a genius, but I can't seem to get a fire started here."

Could this human not even harness the primitive power of fire? Vegeta scorned, "Stop your babbling. I can't stand to watch your struggling any longer." He motioned for the old man to move back. "Step aside, fool."

Once the scientist had been cleared from the path of destruction, Vegeta stood in front of the fireplace. With his arm outstretched he shot a scorching blast of energy at the log sitting in the heart of the fireplace, igniting it. Ashes and splintered pieces of wood flew from the mouth of the fireplace and landed on the carpet, but otherwise a perfect blaze had been kindled.

"Well. That was very kind of you. Thank you, Vegeta," Dr. Briefs hailed in praise.

"Don't mention it—and take my words literally. Speak of this generous act I have reluctantly extended to you and I will see to it you won't live to tell the tale again, got it?"

The scientist held his palms out toward the fire, warming his hands as he distractedly chuckled away, "Merry Christmas to you too, son."

Vegeta scoffed. He couldn't understand how these people could overlook his frightening demeanor, and his actions had in no way conveyed an acclimation of 'Merry Christmas' to the old man.

"Oh, I almost forgot, I'm supposed to finish wrapping the rest of Trunks' Christmas presents," the elderly genius stood and scurried off to attend to his neglected duty.

Quivering with suppressed rage, Vegeta stood by and watched the doting grandfather scuttling from the room. The crowned Prince of all Saiyans had just lit a fire for the old fool, and the man just gets up and strolls off. Wonderful.

Vegeta was about to leave the room to brood when he was intercepted. He nearly ran into Bulma's mother.

"Oops, pardon me!" the blonde excused herself as she stumbled over to the Christmas tree. Vegeta glared at her, shooting daggers at her with his eyes and wondering what the hell this madwoman was up to.

She was holding a plastic decorative star, which had fallen from the top of the tree when Trunks had attempted to climb its branches earlier that day. Bunny Briefs stood on her toes, but despite being taller than Vegeta, she could not reach the top of the tree. It had to be ten feet in height. The woman required either the assistance of a ladder, or—

"Oh, Vegeta, sweetie, could you be a dear and place this star on top of the tree for me?"

Bristling, Vegeta considered his available options: shove the woman into the fireplace so the blaze he had started wouldn't go to waste, or silently concede in the hopes that the ditz would return his kindness by leaving him alone.

Knowing it would not work in his favor in the long run if he disposed of this crone (suffice to say, he couldn't live without her wonderful cooking), he spat curses as he snatched the plastic star from Bunny before levitating up to the tree.

He shoved the decoration on the tip of the tree, but his first attempt at returning the star resulted in it being lopsided. He spent a minute angrily fussing and adjusting the ornament until it was perfectly positioned.

"Aren't you ever the gentleman!" Bunny cooed when Vegeta descended to the floor.

She tried to seal her gratitude with a kiss on his cheek, but he backed away from the senile woman, snarling, "If you'd really like to show your appreciation, grant me this—don't harass me with your irritating coddling!" As an afterthought, he warned her, "And if you impose any unwarranted gifts on me tomorrow morning, I can promise you, they will _not_ be accepted. I haven't forgotten what you burdened me with last year."

Bunny pouted. "But Bulma told me you really liked the bath supplies I got for you!"

_Bath supplies?_! Was the woman dyslexic, or could she not even read the label that clearly said _K-Y Intense Arousal Gel_? Her stupidity was truly remarkable.

He had immediately discarded the lubricant upon receiving it, but Bulma had recovered it from the trash, and of course she made certain the mortifying gift had been put to use. The trysts that followed hadn't been awful. But still, Vegeta could not forgive the blonde cretin for interfering with his private matters, even if her vulgar meddling had been unintentional or simply a misunderstanding. Any excuse to avoid this wench was good enough for Vegeta. She was just downright bizarre and frightening.

As Bunny knelt in front of the fireplace to enjoy the warmth radiating forth from the blaze within, Vegeta chose to make his escape, retracing his steps back to his desired destination. He had faced incursions along the way, and now all he wanted was to satiate the hunger clawing at his stomach.

When at last he reached his journey's end, the prince marched into the kitchen with every intention of stuffing his face with whatever it was he had smelled cooking earlier. Upon entering the room, the sight that welcomed him was not in the least bit unpleasant—Bulma was huddled over the oven, shoving a tray of cookies into the searing depths, and the Saiyan shamelessly ogled her hindquarters.

Once the tray had been secured in the oven, Bulma went over to the counter to pick up where she had left off frosting an earlier batch of cookies that had cooled off. To his mild disappointment, Vegeta realized it was freshly baked cookies he had smelled earlier. He wasn't too partial to sweets. Regardless, he was always curious to sample all sorts of foods.

He strode over to Bulma's side and reached his hand out to help himself to a cookie, but the unwanted extremity was swatted away. "Hands off. These cookies are for Santa, remember?" the heiress said, giving Vegeta a reprimanding look.

"Spare me the excuses," Vegeta countered. "You and your parents are the ones who devour these each year, and you pit the blame on your fabled Santa Claus glutton."

Bulma smirked, digressing, "If you really want a cookie that badly, just ask."

She continued frosting the baked treats while Vegeta snorted indignantly, having lost interest in sampling cookies (especially if he was required to ask for one). "The boy seems to view that Santa creature as a rival for these baked goods. You may think the red demon's false existence attributes to Trunks' 'holiday cheer', but our son resents that clawed hedonist for pilfering cookies."

"Oh. I see," Bulma said with a frown. "Well, I suppose Trunks can have a few extra cookies this year now that the last of his front baby teeth have fallen out. Shouldn't hurt."

"What? _Extra_ cookies?" Vegeta spat, quickly reduced to a sputtering grouch, "I was under the impression that your mythical Santa had robbed the boy, and not even one morsel of those contraband cookies had been spared for the brat!"

"I gave Trunks at_ least_ a quarter of the batch I whipped up last year," Bulma said.

The greedy, spoiled brat had played the part of a victim because he wanted to devour a few additional cookies? And to think he had actually pitied the boy for his plight! Vegeta trembled with rage. It took everything he had left of his slowly depleting reserves of self-control to restrain himself from hurling the cookies out onto the snow covered lawn outside.

Bulma watched with amusement as her husband's anger visibly escalated, evidenced by the quick saturation of red in his face and the vicious grinding of his teeth. Bulma giggled away. She thought her prince looked especially adorable when he was repressing his temper tantrums.

To tame (or possibly further enrage) the beast, Bulma leaned close to Vegeta and kissed one of his reddened cheeks. The color in his face only intensified, and he cringed away from her, muttering about how he had now lost his appetite.

"Don't be so grumpy about it," Bulma chuckled, watching Vegeta as he scowled at the wall, his glare pointed in the direction where he sensed his son's energy signal. "He's a little boy, he can't help that he wants to eat tons of sweets. And I can't say I blame him for liking my _awesome_ cookies so much."

Her boast went ignored. Vegeta was deep in thought, plotting a variety of punishments he would need to deliver upon Trunks.

Not one who settled well with being overlooked, Bulma's eyes fell on her thumb; largely on a glob of frosting that had caught on the opposable extremity. Reaching her hand out to Vegeta, she wiped the digit across his cheek, smearing the frosting on his skin.

He choked out a startled gasp and recoiled, but his shock quickly turned to agitation once Bulma started laughing boisterously.

"You miscreant! Do _not_ deface my royal flesh!" Vegeta sputtered, rubbing at his tarnished skin with the back of his hand.

"I bet you'd like it if I licked that off for you," Bulma huffed.

The prince faltered and the onslaught of red pigmentation spread from his face to his neck. He would have liked to relocate their little spat to their bedroom for a quick tussle in the sack in order to prove her wrong.

Unfortunately for him, Bulma had other plans. "Hey, do you think you could finish frosting the rest of these cookies for me? I forgot I was supposed to wrap up a few last minute gifts," she winked and added, "Including a few for _you_."

"Absolutely not. I won't smother your wretched cookies with cavity-encouraging icing, and I most certainly will not accept any gifts from you tomorrow!"

"C'mon. If you do this for me, I might just let you splatter _your_ 'frosting' on any part of my body of your choosing later tonight."

Apart from being rendered astonished by her lewd implication, he was inclined to ask '_any_ part?' But he did not want to make it obvious that he was even remotely interested in her offer. However, he at least wanted to see if he couldn't barter until the offer worked mostly in his favor. "As long as you don't clamp down on my royal endowment, I may consider it," he insinuated with a sneer.

"Oh. Fellatio _and_ a facial, huh?" Bulma stated bluntly.

He didn't plan to end their night's tryst with the work of her mouth alone. No, that would only count as the first round. Not wanting to spoil his intentions, he merely gave a curt nod.

"I hope you'll be a gentleman and clean up after yourself," the heiress remarked, drawing into a boorish joke, "After we make cookies, you should lick away the extra frosting! Hah! Get it?"

Vegeta didn't contribute, wishing the woman was not so explicit with her vile use of double entendres.

Squeezing his bicep in her hands and pulling herself close to him for a quick peck on the cheek (right where she had smeared the frosting on him), Bulma excused herself with one last vulgar comment, "I hope you'll have room for dessert later tonight!"

Vegeta reproachfully watched as the heiress left the room, snickering all the way. He cursed as he picked up where Bulma had left off, slathering icing on the rest of the cookies and trying not to think about how the woman had correlated frosting with reproductive bodily fluids.

He also attempted to avoid dwelling on the events of the evening where he had offered his unintentional kindness to his family members. But at least with helping the others out, he had put his prowess to use. Frosting cookies was such a menial task in comparison.

He came to conclude that it must be the infectious holiday cheer getting to him and influencing him to be charitable. Besides, winter was the cold-flu season, as these Earthlings called it… Vegeta reasoned that his faint and fleeting change of heart could be a symptom of him becoming ill.

Toiling away so shamefully would not be without profit, at least. Perhaps this Christmas evening hadn't entirely been insufferable, now that he had merited a promised reward.

He so eagerly looked forward to his assured gift that he failed to notice that the second batch of neglected cookies in the oven proceeded to burn.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – this chapter isn't so much comedy as much as it is 'sickeningly romantic drunken couple bonding', I think? I may add one last chapter after this one (although it's kind of out of season now oops)

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><p>"What is it you want to pester me with now?" Vegeta demanded.<p>

He had escaped the night's festivities by retreating to one of Capsule Corp's upstairs lounges, where he had been free to mull over his awful evening. He had been enjoying his moment of solitude, which turned out to be fleeting once Bulma intruded upon him.

Her motive for the incursion on the royal wasn't hard to guess—she had a bottle of 150-proof rum at hand, and in her other a glass filled with eggnog, which she had poured a portion of the former into to dilute the solution. The liquor in the bottle alone had to be strong and unable to be consumed straight, as Bulma took only the most timid of sips from her alcoholic eggnog concoction.

"That beverage smells terrible," the prince remarked, flaring his nostrils. He was not making a complaint without cause; the odor of such a high concentration of alcohol irritated his fine-tuned nasal passage.

"If you take a swig, the smell won't bother you anymore," Bulma invited, a purr to her voice as she waved the bottle of rum toward him.

"Is it your intention to poison me with that wretched drink?" Vegeta scoffed, though he did not outright refuse her offer. He was in a foul mood.

For him the evening had been humiliating and exhausting to his pride, having allowed himself to be coerced into what the Saiyan prince viewed as the equivalent of slavery, all for the benefit of others. Long ago he'd promised himself that he would only be remotely kind toward Bulma and their son, but he had been almost civil toward Bulma's parents, a pair of jesters whom he had little tolerance for. He didn't want them to see him as anything less than intimidating, but his behavior had been almost benevolent. Acting in such a manner was a disgrace to him.

Having a drink and kicking back to take his mind off the horrid events of the evening sounded tempting.

He snatched the bottle from her, wrinkling his nose as the highly concentrated aroma of alcohol from within reached his senses.

"Cheers," Bulma proposed cordially, settling herself on the sofa next to her counterpart and raising her glass to him. Her pleasantries went unreciprocated. Vegeta almost relinquished the entire bottle of its contents in one gulp. He had to struggle to hold his bile as he ingested what tasted like acid to him.

Not hearing any remarks from her brooding companion, Bulma opened into a mostly one-sided conversation. "Why'd you get up and leave in the middle of dinner? You didn't even save room for dessert. You just shoved everything that was on your plate into your mouth and you stormed off with a mean look on your face."

He didn't bother answering. He couldn't tell Bulma how much he despised sitting at the dinner table with her chattering brain-dead mother and equally foolish father.

But what had set Vegeta off was when Trunks had dumped a spoonful of gravy-smothered mashed potatoes onto the elder prince's lap. Amidst the annual Christmas dinner chaos, Vegeta had easily slipped away for a much needed change of clothes—and a change of scenery. He couldn't stand to be around so many cheerful faces and having his clothing soiled by his clumsy brat of a son all in one night.

Her inquiry unanswered, Bulma rambled, "Ah well, hey, I'm just glad you willingly showed up for dinner this year. Last time we had to drag you out to eat with the family."

He could not forget _that_ little fiasco. His roars of protest over Bulma's nagging had filled the home that entire day. He'd ended up conceding and grudgingly joining his family for the celebrations, but only as a non-participant (except when it came to eating the Christmas meals, of course). The battle had ended favorably on his end, at least, with the hate-sex that had followed later that night.

"I guess sneaking away turned out to be a good idea. Now we can have some grown-up time," Bulma said with a suggestive tone, nudging Vegeta in his ribs with her elbow and breaking him out of his pleasant imaginings. "Now we just gotta loosen you up a little."

The royal offered only a scoring _Tch_ and took another drink, draining the bottle completely of the liquid it housed.

Only several minutes later, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth in a taut frown, Vegeta remained still as Bulma hung a wreath around his neck. In accompaniment of the wreath she began hanging ornaments in his spiky hair, which managed to support the added weight. Bulma had to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle a snort as her eyes roved over her Christmas decoration-clad prince.

If he had not been inebriated, Vegeta would not permit this unacceptable behavior and desecration of his royal appearance. "Remind me, what value is there in doing this?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's a holiday tradition… a 'stupid human mating ritual', you might say," Bulma lied, snickering, "I told you about mistletoe, didn't I? It's like that."

Vegeta said nothing, silently accepting her answer. Earthling traditions seemed foolish to him. It wouldn't surprise him if being garnished in holiday decorations counted as some sort of stupid human courtship practice. The act screamed of impracticality and senselessness, but he allowed Bulma to amuse herself. And that he was too intoxicated to dispute her claim attributed to him condoning her behavior.

Bulma chuckled at how gullible he was. Upon hunting him down after dinner and offering him a drink, her intention had been to engage in sofa-bound makeouts, but adorning him with decorations was even better, and it was not something she could get away with on any other occasion.

"Your hair looks like a Christmas tree," she guffawed, "Now, if only I could get some tinsel and a string of lights… and if you go Super Saiyan, I can get some green hair dye and—"

Retaliating at last, Vegeta swatted the ornaments from his hair. "No, absolutely not. You've pushed your luck far enough as it is."

The royal clumsily fumbled with the wreath around his neck as he pulled it up and over his head, then he tossed it like a frisbee. The projectile wreath went sailing through the air, where it disappeared into the unlit depths of the room. The rebounding motion of swinging his arm caused the drunken Saiyan to stumble and collapse further into the sofa. Bulma burst out laughing at that gesture.

"You know I was only kidding about the mating ritual thing," she admitted. "I just thought you'd look adorable with decorations in your hair!"

Sputtering, Vegeta objected, "You fool! Do not mock me for your amusement!"

While Bulma underwent a fit of laughter, Vegeta grit his teeth together, his face burning red in his embarrassment.

It wasn't that she had dressed him in Christmas decorations that had humiliated him. He had believed that it was part of a legitimate coupling practice, and he had been fully expecting to reap the benefits such an act promoted. He only resented that he had very willingly fallen for her ploy.

He would not stand to subject himself to such improper treatment of his appearance without being rewarded.

While Bulma continued to laugh jovially, the Saiyan pulled the meanest grimace he could muster in his drunken state, sitting upright with his body turned toward her and scowling her down. The heiress only laughed harder, but her merriment came to an abrupt halt as the grouchy drunk struck, clutching her face in his hands and slamming his mouth into hers. The attempt was clumsy and off the mark, and he did not break away, holding the suffocating lip lock for over seven seconds until Bulma was squirming to be released. Hands stationed on his shoulders, she pushed him away, to his displeasure.

"You're _really_ drunk," she exclaimed, though she was pleasantly surprised by his forwardness. The rough kiss had been the most smothering smooch he had given her in a long time. It was not unlikable; in fact she was rather favoring his spontaneity. It seemed the rum had lowered his inhibitions a great deal, and she quickly decided she wanted to take full advantage of him in this state and see what else he could do.

She wondered aloud, "If I had a mistletoe picture stamped on my underwear, would you kiss me like that down there?"

The drunken prince only glared at her. His affections going unwanted—or so he thought—he curled up on the sofa with his back to her, brooding, "Stop pestering me, wench."

Of course, the woman was far too persistent to get up and leave. But Vegeta didn't entirely mind when she curled up along him from behind.

"You did an excellent job frosting the cookies," she complimented, husking against his ear, "And thanks for putting out that small blaze in the oven… And I hope you'll be 'putting out' tonight." With that, her hand crawled its way down to his hindquarters, where it squeezed the back of his thigh.

Ignoring her vulgar remark (or possibly too drunk to have picked it up), Vegeta digressed viciously, "This planet can burn for all I care."

"_Someone's_ in a bad mood," Bulma jeered.

Seeing as her thigh-squeeze approach had failed, she instead wound her arms around and over Vegeta's chest to hug him from behind. He didn't object, accepting the snuggle for a few minutes.

Then, slowly he turned around. Bulma spared no time to reposition her arms to hug him at this position, burying her face in his chest.

To her surprise and delight, Vegeta returned the embrace, squeezing tightly with both arms and pulling her closer into his warm chest. For a moment she felt safe and comfortable… until the squeezing intensified and the loving embrace became a crushing bear hug. His grip around her ribs increased with unintentional force.

"Ow! Vegeta, dammit, not so hard!" Bulma gasped out, writhing to be free.

The drunken Saiyan didn't relent, oblivious to the heiress' discomfort as he crushed her even closer to him. Normally, he wasn't especially partial to showing this sort of affection toward her—it wasn't that he wouldn't want to, but initiating such acts of endearment did not come easily to him. But now that he was drunk he could do such things without shame, though he was unaware that he was now nearly squeezing the life from the object of his affections.

He finally came to his senses when he felt teeth in his collarbone. He recoiled from the woman who had nipped at him with her fangs, watching her as she panted and recovered from near asphyxiation. With a small semblance of humiliation he realized his gaffe—in such an inebriated state he had forgotten he needed to limit his strength around her and had been driven to impulsively latching onto her, a bit too strongly.

Wheezing, Bulma composed herself, giving Vegeta the evil eye as she exploited more horrible holiday hymns, "Are you going to be naughty or nice? If you're not on your best behavior, you'll find coal in your stocking tomorrow!"

Vegeta slurred ill-temperedly, "Enough of your drivel." He turned his back to her once again, unable to face Bulma out of shame. He'd damn near crushed the woman in his drunken stupor. Such a careless slip was unacceptable.

Bulma overlooked his folly. She continued jabbering, "I know you don't really care about Christmas, but is there anything you would like tomorrow?"

Burying his face into the cushions, Vegeta grumbled, "Copulation. The moment I awake."

"That's not surprising… Oh, I know! Maybe I'll dress up in some Mrs. Claus themed lingerie, with red leather and white fuzzy cuffs. And it'll be a lot more fun if you dress up, too, in a fake white beard and a Santa hat, and you can talk dirty to me—'ho ho ho'—and go down my chimney!"

Vegeta turned and looked over his shoulder to stare at Bulma, wide-eyed and wordless with horror.

The thought of her in red leather, however, sounded very appealing.

He turned around fully once more, shifting his position until he was huddling over Bulma. He looked her up and down reproachfully, wondering if she was currently wearing the red lingerie she spoke of. He knew full well that her words sometimes hid clever intentions, so it would not surprise him in the least if she had planned this out ahead. It wouldn't hurt to find out…

"What are you up to now? Will you give me a present?" mewed Bulma, fluttering her eyelashes as she looked up at the imposing brute.

Vegeta scoffed, "Impatient harlot. I'll give it to you right now."

He proceeded to drunkenly fumbling with her pants, trying in vain to undo the zipper. Bulma's inebriated heart raced and she gushed, "So you _are _planning to give me a gift tomorrow! That's so sweet of you!"

Though he did not like his actions being referred to as 'sweet', this was one gift he wouldn't mind giving… although of course he was hoping for something in return.

Through a combined effort, the pair finally managed to yank Bulma's pants off. Another wave of the alcohol's intoxicating power washed over Vegeta. He was dazed and tired now, wanting nothing more than to hurry through his exploits.

"Wait, I want you to look at my panties!" Bulma said when he tried to yank them off.

He eyed the designated area critically, expecting to see red, but he was shocked at what he saw instead. Just as the conniving wench had hinted at earlier, there was a mistletoe decal stamped right above the crotch of her underwear. On the waistband of the panties blaring out in red and green letters was a crude statement: _Kiss me under the mistletoe_.

His face red and his mouth hanging open, Vegeta backed away.

"Heh, told you," Bulma said proudly, "Would you care for some 'season's eatings'? That's something I was hoping you'd give me for Christmas."

Fuming and sputtering, Vegeta vowed, "I will maul you to _death_ the moment this dexterity-inhibiting poison wears off!"

"If by 'death' you mean 'the pinnacle of pleasure', then by all means do so," Bulma sassily countered with a knowing smirk.

Vegeta only snorted, but he did not deny her assumption. He laid himself down on the sofa, crossing his arms across his chest and shutting his eyes. What he wanted most now was to sleep off the alcohol in his system, then he would show Bulma a 'mauling' so extreme that the heiress would quiver uncontrollably and believe she was nearing death.

To Bulma, his silence spoke volumes. She marveled at his willingness to give her something non-material as a gift, though carnal as it was. The acts of endearment the normally reluctant and grumpy Saiyan extended to her were something she had once never imagined he would willingly give, not without outright demanding she give him what he wanted first.

The eggnog and rum concoction beginning to take its effect on her, Bulma fell asleep, sprawled across Vegeta's abdomen. The prince drifted into slumber, dreaming of red leather and plowing through chimneys, going from house to house to burn the cookies the inhabitants had left out for Santa.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - rushed as hell, also so horribly out of season. can't b tamed.

* * *

><p>Vegeta was awakened at 9:30 pm, groggy and dazed as he stumbled from the sofa where the passed-out Bulma Briefs still resided. While the residual alcohol in his system left him feeling somewhat nauseous, the prince was on a quest to satiate a greater need; his ever-present hunger, which had returned ten-fold after he'd had his nap.<p>

Disoriented and bleary-eyed, Vegeta blindly staggered through his home, following the smell of pine emanating from the Christmas tree as his only guide through the mansion's unlit halls. He was abruptly brought to his senses when he almost tripped over his kneeling son.

"Brat! What are you—"

Trunks brought a finger to his mouth, shushing his father. Then he cautiously motioned to the entrance of the living room, whispering, "Dad, it's him!"

The boy was wide-eyed with excitement, transfixed as he peered around the drywall corner of the living room's entrance. Grumbling expletives, yet curious to see what his spawn was so enthusiastic about, Vegeta glared into the room… and faltered.

Bustling around at the base of the Christmas tree was an unmistakable figure dressed in red, a hefty burlap sack slung over his shoulder. The red creature hummed to holiday tunes as he reached into his sack, retrieving colorfully wrapped gifts and placing them beneath the tree.

"It's Santa!" Trunks piped happily, barely able to keep his voice at a whisper.

Stooping down beside Trunks, Vegeta hatefully watched the red demon. Then he asked his son in a tone laced with scorn, "This is the creature who has been pilfering your baked goods, and you're not set on seeking vengeance?"

The half-Saiyan had been too preoccupied with his sights locked on the gifts the jolly St. Nick had at hand, but now his attention was diverted to the vulnerable tray of cookies that had been set out on the coffee table. He anxiously nibbled at his lower lip. "I don't think he's noticed them yet… But, Dad," he glanced up at his scowling father, "If we take the cookies before he can get them, won't he get mad and take back our presents?"

"He is a low-life larcener, he has no merit in laying claim to those cookies—which I _regrettably_ had a hand in garnishing," Vegeta grouched.

Trunks' eyes lit up with wonder at hearing that. "_You_ helped Mom make the cookies?"

Vegeta only grumbled, much too inebriated to recall his better judgment. He was still far too drunk to reason as to why the fabled Santa, apparition or not, was in his home. He only felt anger at seeing a bumbling criminal encroaching upon his residency.

Trunks stared greedily at the plate of cookies. For as long as he had known his father, the boy had never heard of him having a hand in cooking or baking of any sort. Now he so desperately wanted to try one of the delectable treats his father had made. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity he simply couldn't pass up. He could not let Santa have them!

Once he had set the last of the presents underneath the tree, the red demon shambled over to the coffee table. Both father and son bored holes into the mythical beast as he went for the bait. Trunks trembled with anticipation and uncertainty; he had mixed feelings, unsure if he should strike and suffer the consequences—his mother had strictly preached that he should stay on his best behavior with warnings that Santa was always keeping tabs to see if the boy was being naughty or nice—or he would have to endure the repercussions of never in his life sampling his beloved father's culinary creations. He was essentially being torn on which of his parents he should betray. As Trunks struggled through his internal conflict, Vegeta was quickly thinking up a battle tactic.

Santa swayed in his spot, scrutinizing the plate of sweets and deciding which cookie he should take first. Then he made his move, reaching a wrinkled hand out for what was to him the most appealing looking cookie of the bunch.

Before his fingers could even make contact with the cookie, he felt a powerful force strike both of his legs. The assault was so quick that his body did not even register pain as he fell to the floor. Drawn to the scuffle, Trunks saw that his father had Santa in a headlock. The boy made his decision, justifying that he had been naughty enough as it was the entire year—his record of misdeeds was irreparable by far. He sprinted into the room, paying no mind to the struggling red demon as he retrieved the plate of cookies and scurried back to his hiding spot behind the drywall, hoarding his treats away all to himself.

Vegeta was considering snapping the intruder's neck when he picked up the familiar malodor of lingering cigarette smoke and soiled Depends wafting from his victim. He released his chokehold, observing with shock as his in-law dropped to all fours, sputtering and wheezing.

"It's _you_," Vegeta barked at the would-be Santa. "So you've been plundering your grandson's cookies while parading around under the guise of that lowly, glorified thief, have you?"

Trunks nearly gagged on a mouthful of his second cookie; partially chewed chunks fell from his open mouth as he coughed out, "Grandpa is Santa Claus?"

Not wanting to be the one to have to explain the deception surrounding Santa Claus' existence, Vegeta ordered, "Go speak with your mother, Trunks. _Now_."

Sheepishly the boy scurried away, off to receive a lecture, he feared.

Vegeta was not worried at all that his son's belief in Santa had been shattered—the boy hated the creature, anyway. But as for Bulma having to disprove the myth to her little boy, Vegeta cringed to think that it was very likely that he had just lost his Christmas morning copulation privileges. Unless there was a way he could remedy this…

"That was one hell of a stealthy approach there, son," Dr. Briefs regained his breath at last, though he remained sprawled across the floor. "I can barely feel my legs!"

Fearing he may have mortally wounded his father-in-law, Vegeta gruffly asked, "Do you need anything?"

"A pack of smokes and some bourbon would do."

"_No_, do you have any serious injuries that need to be addressed?" Vegeta clarified, putting extra emphasis on the word serious; if the old coot had just a scratch or a sprain, the prince was unconcerned. Being responsible for a broken ankle or leg, however, meant Bulma would thoroughly scold her husband and abstain for a week.

"Well, I think having one of those miracle cure beans would be great right about now. There's this numb tingly feeling in my legs and I can't really move them…"

"Is it life-threatening?" Vegeta insisted on asking. He didn't particularly feel thrilled about flying to Korin's tower on a cold winter night, nor did he want Bulma to find her father in a crippled state.

"Oh. I don't believe so, but perhaps—"

"_Fine_." Vegeta relented, more so out of fear of Bulma's reaction than by any remorse for his actions. "I will get your Senzu bean, only on the condition that you don't prattle about this mishap—which you are to blame for, marauding as a thief."

As Vegeta headed from the room, Dr. Briefs called out, "Wait, you'd best put a sweater on. It's cold out."

Vegeta mentally recited explicit incantations as he stormed out of the room. He didn't dare risk heading upstairs and crossing paths with Bulma or her mother, and there was only one sweater he had hanging in the nearest closet—gaudy and shameful, but damn comfortable. It was irrefutably cold outside. If he were to embark on this trip, he may as well be cozy. His shame couldn't be amplified even further, besides.

Korin stared in disbelief at his visitor—a grimacing alien clad in a home-knit sweater, which was adorned with prancing reindeer. The bad-tempered extraterrestrial had outright demanded a Senzu bean, but the sentient feline was reluctant to offer up magical beans to a Saiyan who had once threatened to wipe out the ground he stood on.

"If you don't hand it over, I'll beat every last bean out of you!" Vegeta roared.

Huddling behind the pillar at the center of the tower—his teeth chattering not from the cold, but from fear—Yajirobe shuddered. He had cheated death once, but now it seemed the Saiyan brute had returned to exact his revenge.

Hesitantly, Korin trod over to his bean stash. Vegeta turned his head and glared at the tower's central pillar. He could detect a faintly familiar odor, that of collected sweat concealed under rolls of fat, and the unmistakable smell of fear. He could not recall who the owner of such a foul stench was, but memories of his tail being hacked off resurfaced suddenly.

Shaking his head, he forced the thought from his mind. It didn't matter, he had other things to attend to—saving the Christmas he had destroyed, and more importantly he hoped to keep his sex life intact.

The second Korin outstretched his taloned claw, rasping out in his scratchy voice, "Here, but you'd better—" Vegeta snatched the single bean with a scoff. Then, without exchanging pleasantries or giving thanks, he turned swiftly and hopped over the railing surrounding the tower, descending into the night.

A minute crawled by, and as soon as Korin was certain Vegeta was miles away, he put both paws to his mouth, snickering, "Did you get a look at what he was wearing_?_!"

Yajirobe emerged from his hiding spot, shivering. "Yeah… that ugly lookin' death scowl on his face."


End file.
